


Aversion to Propriety

by Tehri



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Belladonna will have None Of This Nonsense, Body Image, Body Positivity, Bungo is embarrassed, F/M, Gorbadoc is poetic, Mirabella is sassy, Negative Body Image, Overthinking, Self-Esteem Issues, Suggestive Themes, Wedding Fluff, positive body image
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 20:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12043761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tehri/pseuds/Tehri
Summary: "Perhaps an ugly Baggins does not exist," he thought glumly to himself, "but perhaps ‘not handsome’ does not have to mean ‘ugly’. Because handsome I am most certainly not."During the wedding reception of Mirabella Took and Gorbadoc Brandybuck, Bungo begins to consider and overthink some of his own features.





	Aversion to Propriety

Weddings had never been Bungo’s cup of tea. Too many people gathered in one place and all focused on two people who, by all means, should be given a little bit of space and time to breathe. But hobbits in general preferred to think of it as a time for a grand party. On his own wedding, Bungo had felt practically naked with the way people stared at him. He’d never enjoyed being the centre of attention; but attention was to be expected when one married Belladonna Took, who thrived and loved taking up a little bit of space. His father, Mungo, had given him a small piece of advice during the morning – to keep his eyes fixed on the lass he was marrying.

“Won’t it seem odd if I stare at her all the time?” Bungo had asked.

“Most of the attention will always be on the bride rather than the groom,” Mungo had laughed. “And all you will be seen as is someone completely besotted – which you are. You don’t have to seek eye contact all the time, but just keep your eyes on her. How she wears her hair, the pattern of her dress, what flowers she bears; anything. So long as you do not pay attention to others. Well, aside from the poor hobbit to officiate. You’ll need to listen to him, too.”

It had worked, though it had been a poor comfort.

No, weddings were not Bungo’s cup of tea, not even when it was other people getting married. He felt only marginally better about the reception, but that was mostly due to the food.

He’d explained all of this very carefully to Belladonna when they’d received an invitation to her sister Mirabella’s wedding. Of course Belladonna could go – it was her sister getting married, after all, and she would be expected to show up – but he could always invent some small excuse. But Belladonna would not have any of that.

“If I go alone, everyone shall ask me where my husband is,” she’d snapped. “And don’t you try to excuse yourself by saying Bilbo shouldn’t travel – first of all, he’s four years old. He’d be fine. Secondly, we can very well leave him with your parents, we’d only be away for a few days. Besides, look at who Mira is marrying! It is to be a grand event!”

“That’s what I worry about,” Bungo had sighed. But he’d yielded; she would sulk for weeks if he persisted. Though he worried about the Tooks and the Brandybucks all being in one place, he supposed that it could be worse. At the very least most of Belladonna’s family would be there; he knew them by now, and he felt strangely comfortable around them.

 

The wedding of Mirabella Took and Gorbadoc Brandybuck was, just as Belladonna had said, a grand event. Though getting on in years, even old Gerontius had made the journey to Buckland to officiate his daughter’s wedding. Old Marmadoc, the Master of Buckland, seemed pleased indeed; it was no small thing, after all, to have one’s son marry the youngest daughter of the Thain. And as long as his children were happy, Gerontius would be happy.

As he’d thought, Bungo did not relax until the reception. He found himself seated alongside Belladonna at the table intended for relatives, and he thanked whatever powers there be in his thoughts for that turn of luck. No awkward conversation with people he didn’t know. Well, aside from the Brandybucks, but they were more focused on the happy couple and the bride’s family.

“Do you know,” Belladonna said at one point, “that Mira has never told me how she came to meet you, Gorbadoc? She’s been awfully secretive.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Mirabella protested, laughing as she spoke. “I thought I’d just keep it to myself!”

“You’re married now, lass,” Gerontius laughed. “Marriage is to share everything.”

“With my spouse, yes, not with my siblings!”

“Oh, but it’s such a fine tale,” Gorbadoc stated. He gave his wife a mischievous grin and raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I shall tell it, and spare you the effort?”

“You’ll tell it regardless of if I want you to or not,” Mirabella sighed. “Alright then. Go ahead, if you must.”

“I absolutely must.” Gorbadoc cleared his throat in a theatrical manner as though he were about to recite a verse or an old legend. “It was a beautiful day, as so many spring days are-“

“It was cloudy and windy and about to rain,” Mirabella interjected.

“And I’d gone down to the Brandywine to fish,” Gorbadoc continued as though he’d not heard her. “I never reckoned I’d ever bring anything home with me, though I wanted to try all the same. But as I sat there, I saw the ferry about halfway across the river; there were two hobbits on it, I remember, and-”

“I couldn’t steer that thing to save my life,” Mirabella groaned. “At the very least there was someone else going the same way, and he offered to help me.”

“Giselbert Puddifoot, yes,” Gorbadoc stated and gave his wife a nudge. “Now hush, you said I could tell the story.”

Bungo chuckled along with everyone else. He’d often bickered this way with Belladonna, and it was a somehow comforting thing to hear.

“Anyway, I thought I’d pay no heed to the ferry,” Gorbadoc continued. “After all, people come across on it all the time. So I sat down with my fishing pole and cast out my line. But as the ferry came towards the shallows, something happened. One of the hobbits on it seemed to slip, and they fell straight into the water. Poor master Puddifoot gave a shout, and I think he would have dived in himself if he wasn’t afraid he’d lose the ferry altogether. It was sheer luck that I was there.”

“You make it sound very deliberate, lad,” Marmadoc teased his son. “Who knows, perhaps divination is another of your skills?”

“I should hope not,” Gorbadoc scoffed. “Why would I want to know the future?” But he grinned all the same and continued. “Well, I cast aside my fishing pole and dove into the water. The poor hobbit was weighed down by a pretty dress, but I managed to get a hold of her and pull her to the surface and along to the shore. And once she was out of the water and I got a good look at her, I was awestruck.” He gave Mirabella a warm smile and placed his hand over hers on the table. “It had to be a water sprite I pulled up, one of the fair folk.”

“I looked like a drowned rat,” Mirabella answered, smiling back at him. “And I was covered in mud and weeds.”

“She had eyes like river itself-“

“Muddy?”

“And I knew myself lost. There are tales in Buckland of water sprites, and how if you gaze into their eyes, your will is lost and you belong to them forever. But I shook myself and I asked her, ‘dear lady, are you well’ – simply to be polite, you understand.”

“You were terribly rude and joked about me trying to drown myself for attention,” Mirabella shot back with a grin. “And poor master Puddifoot, trying to get off the ferry and find out if I was alright at the same time.”

The hobbits around the table laughed, though Bungo’s laughter was cut short when he saw Gerontius grinning at him.

“Just about as bad as some others,” the old hobbit suggested airily. “How did it go again, Belladonna?”

“As far as bad goes, I only found Bungo napping beneath the apple tree in our garden,” Belladonna laughed. She placed her hand over her husband’s as he groaned audibly and rolled his eyes skywards. “And rude… Well, at least he wasn’t that.” Her eyes twinkled with mirth, and she glanced at Bungo. “I suppose I wouldn’t have minded a gallant hero to pull me out of a river, though.”

For a moment, Bungo hesitated while the others laughed. And while the feast went on, he glanced often at Gorbadoc. The Brandybuck heir was not a bad-looking hobbit by any means; he was by hobbit standards very handsome, with a kind face and bright brown eyes and dark skin and hair. Solidly built, with a generous waistline and strong arms. The very image a hobbit would have of a gallant hero, as Belladonna had put it. Then he considered himself.

His mother had joked once that such a thing as an ugly Baggins did not exist and never would exist. Before Bungo had met Belladonna, he’d been considered quite a catch by many, and had received a fair number of proposals for courtships. He looked much like his father – solidly built, a little round, with brown skin, sun-bleached brown hair, and clever dark eyes. He had an oblong face with rounded cheeks, and he had the rather classical Baggins button nose. But his body lacked the strength he saw in both his father and in Gorbadoc. And perhaps, just perhaps, he was a little on the thin side – for a hobbit. And where Gorbadoc, though he’d only come of age the year previous, already had laughter-lines on his face and an openly kind expression, Bungo had a tendency to look oddly concerned.

_Perhaps an ugly Baggins does not exist_ , he thought glumly to himself, _but perhaps ‘not handsome’ does not have to mean ‘ugly’. Because handsome I am most certainly not._

 

“You grew very quiet today,” Belladonna said. They’d retired to the guestroom they’d been granted at Brandy Hall when the sun had finally set. Outside, the feast continued for those who had no wish to seek their beds yet. “Father was a little worried that he’d offended you.”

“Offended me?” Bungo asked, frowning as he unbuttoned his shirt. Some sleep, he thought, would do him good and release him from his reveries. “Why on earth does he think that?”

“Well, you were so quiet after he joked about how we met.” She gave him a shrewd glance as she changed into her nightshirt. “He thought that perhaps you were embarrassed. Asked me to talk to you and apologise for him.”

“No, I was only thinking.” Bungo sighed quietly, shrugged off his shirt and reached for his nightshirt, making a mental note to himself to reassure his father-in-law the next morning. “Something sprung to my mind, is all.”

Belladonna raised an eyebrow as she sat down on the bed and began to braid her hair. He knew that look; she was going to try to get an answer out of him.

“Did I say something that upset you?” she asked at last when she had tied off the braid and was waiting for him to come to bed. “Was it because-“

“It was not because of the story of how we met,” Bungo interrupted, almost immediately regretting his tone of voice. “Belladonna, it’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it? If I’ve upset you, can’t you at least explain what I did and let me apologise?”

“It’s nothing you’ve done. It’s only… I overthink things. You know I do. And I’ve been doing precisely that all evening, and I need to stop thinking about it.” He gave his wife an almost helpless look and tried for a faint smile. “I promise, all I need is a good night’s sleep, and it will be gone tomorrow.”

“Gallant hero,” Belladonna blurted out suddenly, eyes widening. Bungo’s smile froze. “It’s what I said about wanting a gallant hero to pull me out of a river, isn’t it?”

“Not precisely,” Bungo objected weakly.

“But you kept glancing at Gorbadoc the entire time,” Belladonna insisted. “And you looked so- oh, darling, no.”

He groaned quietly; perhaps at the start of their acquaintance, he’d found it difficult to follow her line of thought. But not anymore. The children of Gerontius Took were many things – loudmouthed, rambunctious, mischievous, and curious to a fault. But not stupid, never stupid. Once they knew a hobbit, they could read them like an open book in most situations.

“You’re wondering why I married you again, aren’t you?” she asked flatly. “You’ve been comparing yourself to Gorbadoc and you’ve been wondering why on earth I’d choose you over someone like him.”

“Yes, alright, maybe I have,” Bungo snapped. For once he would have liked to keep something to himself; this subject was brought up a little too often, and he knew it peeved her to explain herself and her reasoning time and again. “I can’t help it, alright? It just springs to mind, and then it won’t leave, because I _know_ I’m not what a Took would consider a good choice! And we both know it’ll go away eventually, so long as I don’t think too much about it, so please-“

“Come lay down.”

“What?” He blinked, confused at the sudden interruption.

“Come and lay down,” Belladonna said again, smiling kindly at him. “Humour me for a while, darling.”

Though reluctant, Bungo complied with her request and laid down on his back in the bed. Belladonna sat beside him with her legs pulled up under her and watched him.

“Now,” she said calmly, “I want you to close your eyes.”

“What for?” he asked suspiciously.

“Humour me. I promise it’s nothing bad.”

Grumbling a little bit, he closed his eyes. The feeling of vulnerability struck immediately – a bizarre feeling when connected to his wife. He ought to feel safe with her, but sometimes she made him nervous. This was, unsurprisingly, one of those moments.

Belladonna’s hand came to rest on his chest, playing with the buttons on his nightshirt.

“I don’t like Gorbadoc’s type,” she said quietly. Her voice sounded loud in the silence of the room, and every rustle of the sheets and of the cloth of his shirt echoed in his ears. “He looks handsome, I’ll admit that. But saying that he’s handsome and that I find him attractive are very different things.” She hummed softly, and her hand trailed up over his chest, over his neck and his jawline, and finally came to rest in his hair. “He reminds me of my brothers. A little of Isengrim’s good looks, some of Isumbras’ strength, most of Hildigrim’s charm…”

“Lovely to know that that’s all that’s stopping you,” Bungo replied, voice dripping with sarcasm – only to immediately wince when Belladonna’s hand snaked down and pinched his ear, though not too roughly.

“I told you, it’s different,” she sighed. “He’s handsome, yes. And charming. But saying that he’s handsome is one thing – finding him attractive is another. And as for what I actually find attractive…” He could hear the smile in her voice, and she slowly trailed her hand down over his face, gently touching his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, and his lips. “You really must stop thinking of yourself the way you do sometimes, darling. You are handsome – anyone with eyes can see as much.”

“I look like a mismatched puzzle,” Bungo muttered; he could feel his cheeks heating when she spoke. “Everything looks out of place.”

“Perhaps if you consider your features one by one,” Belladonna stated. “But if you look at the whole picture, it all comes together into the being that is you. You have many of your father’s features, and goodness knows he was – and still is – a handsome hobbit.”

“Depends on whom you ask, I suppose,” Bungo sighed. “’An acquired taste’ is what some call us Bagginses.”

“But you have your mother’s hair and eyes, you know,” Belladonna continued, unperturbed by her husband’s grumbling. “At least the shape of the eyes – the colour is your father’s. I keep trying to describe the colour, you know. Sometimes I think they are grey, sometimes they look brown… It all depends on the light. And your hair looks as though it ought to be a golden brown, but it shifts with the seasons; in the summer, the sun bleaches it to a very light brown.”

“You are still not making any sense,” Bungo protested and opened his eyes to shoot a glare at her. “Would you please explain the point of-“

“Close your eyes again,” Belladonna said firmly. “I am already making my point.” She waited patiently until he complied before she continued and trailed her hand down to his arm. “You are far stronger than you believe yourself to be. Not as strong as Isumbras, or indeed Gorbadoc, but strong all the same. You’ve not been as idle as you think.” She chuckled softly, running her hand back over his shoulder and his chest and down to his stomach. “And then there’s this. In my opinion, Gorbadoc is a little too wide around the middle. It looks good on him, I’ll admit that. But if you had that stomach, you’d look ridiculous. It wouldn’t fit with the rest of you.”

“I really don’t see what you mean,” Bungo answered. “Hobbits aren’t supposed to be thin.”

“Of course not, but we aren’t meant to be very fat either.” Belladonna shifted until she lay down beside him, pressed against him, and rested her head on his chest. Her hand slowly traced circles on his stomach. “You are a healthy middle ground. Round, pleasantly so. I love the way you look, though I can never decide if you are more pear-shaped or apple-shaped. A little bit of both, perhaps.” She paused briefly, and for a moment Bungo thought that she was done. Then she stated: “Remember when you said you wanted to kiss every freckle on my body?”

Bungo knew he had to be blushing, had to be beet-red in the face, as he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. He could feel both cheeks and ears burning. That was a memory he preferred to recall in private – especially her reaction to that statement.

“Yes,” he said once he dared to trust his voice. “What of it?”

“I want to kiss you,” she said. “All over. Your face, your chest, your stomach. Everywhere.” She pushed herself up on her elbow and stared down at him. “Every time I look at you, I think that I want to kiss you. And then we start to get ready for bed, and every time I want to suggest that we should simply not wear the nightshirts. I look at you, and I think that I am a lucky hobbit indeed to know that all of this, all of you, is for our eyes only – yours and mine.”

“Every now and again, you get surprisingly poetic,” Bungo stated at length, smiling despite the blush and his previous irritation. “Yet I thank you for thinking so well of me.”

“I think I may not have been clear enough,” Belladonna replied, a bright grin on her face as she suddenly sits back up and climbs on top of him, straddling him and leaning down until their noses brush together. “I want to kiss you all over, darling, if I may.”

For the briefest of moments, Bungo considered pointing out to his wife that they were guests in another hobbit’s home – indeed, the home of multiple hobbits – and that they were also not the only guests. But whenever she had that look on her face, and whenever he found himself in the same position, every little notion of propriety seemed to fly stark naked through the window.

“And if someone hears?” he asked, making at least a token effort to cling to said propriety despite the smile on his face and his hands already reaching to tug at the buttons on her nightshirt. “What then?”

“Then,” Belladonna answered after pretending to think it over for a moment, “we’ll pretend to be terribly offended if they point it out to us. And we’ll spout some nonsense about propriety and how certain matters should be discussed in private until they are too embarrassed to continue.” She laughed and kissed his cheek. “See, this is another reason to why I married you – that complete aversion to propriety.”

“Complete aversion,” Bungo snorted. He lowered one hand to the hem of her nightshirt and slid it up over her thigh, feeling the goose bumps on her skin. “How about I repeat what I said about wanting to kiss every freckle on your body?”

“Only if you want my sister and her husband to know that we are having just as interesting a night as they are.”

“Temptress.”

“I try, darling. I try.”

 

Breakfast the next morning was interesting, to say the least. Mirabella and Gorbadoc certainly looked pleased as could be; Marmadoc and Gerontius had both joked that no one had expected to see the newly-weds until luncheon at the earliest. But the looks that Bungo sometimes caught that were sent his and Belladonna’s way had him laughing silently to himself. And Belladonna’s simple response of “hard and deep” to a rather strained question of how well they had slept had him almost choking on his tea.

It was not until near luncheon that most of the guests were ready to leave. While Bungo and Belladonna were packing their bags into the cart they were to ride home to Hobbiton, Gerontius walked over to them and patted Bungo on the shoulder.

“I wanted to apologise, lad,” he said. “For what I said at the dinner. I know Bella must have said so to you, but I thought it should come from me personally.”

“I was never offended,” Bungo answered, an easy smile on his lips. “It’s certainly not a bad story, and a bit ridiculous as far as first meetings go. Besides – why should I be offended when it led to my marriage to her?”

“Speaking of that…” A knowing look passed over Gerontius’ face, warring briefly with both embarrassment and discomfort. “Some walls are thin, lad. Perhaps next time you both come and visit the Great Smials, I’ll make sure that Bella’s old rooms are cleaned out and ready for you.”

Bungo could feel the tips of his ears burning, though he struggled to keep a neutral mien. Propriety, and all that.

“Duly noted, sir,” he said slowly. “That may be for the best.”

“Did you think that none of us could hear you and mother?” Belladonna asked bluntly as she stepped around the cart to embrace her father, who almost squirmed in her arms. “None of us were born deaf.”

“There are things that parents and children do not need to know about each other,” Gerontius stated firmly. “Or hear. Ever. But sometimes it’s inevitable, I suppose.” He gave his daughter a pointed look and raised an eyebrow. “All the same, I hope the walls in Bag End are thicker than they are here – for Bilbo’s sanity’s sake, of course.”

And with that gallant parting shot, he bade them both farewell and went to find Mirabella to say goodbye to her. Bungo stared after him, ears burning and mind reeling, as Belladonna laughed.

“Alright, perhaps that complete aversion to propriety is not always a good thing,” she admitted.


End file.
